The night after the Council Ball was colder than expected—colder than it should've been.
Mark lay in his dorm, staring at the ceiling, the dim glow of magical wards pulsing lazily across the walls. Despite the warmth of the room, a chill crept beneath his skin, rooted not in temperature, but in unease.
He had survived his first political trial. Barely.
That line on the scoreboard—"Target: Mark Wilde. Vulnerability: Unknown"—wasn't just a label. It was a declaration. Someone in the Academy, maybe several someones, wanted him exposed. Or erased.
And now… they were watching.
By morning, the halls buzzed with tension. Word of Mark's performance had spread like wildfire. Some students kept their distance. Others whispered behind cupped hands. A few watched him openly—calculating, curious, or worse… interested.
"Freak," someone muttered as he passed."Didn't think he had it in him," another whispered.
Mark ignored it all. Let them talk. Let them underestimate him. That was advantage enough.
He met Elira near the northern wing, where the Arcane Archives loomed—a towering obsidian tower wrapped in silver runes and foggy illusions that distorted its true size. From the outside, it looked small. Inside… it descended into impossibility.
"You're sure about this?" Elira asked, walking beside him.
"No," Mark said flatly. "But I need answers."
"You're not the first Forbidden Tier to walk these halls," she said quietly. "But the last one was erased from every record. Like they never existed."
Mark nodded. His power wasn't just rare—it was feared.
At the Archive's threshold, two Sentinels stood guard—armored constructs, their eyes glowing faintly blue. One stepped forward, scanning him with a flick of its wand-like arm.
"Clear. Blood access: provisional. Wilde. Mark."
A sigil appeared above the door—an open eye wreathed in flame. The rune flared once and vanished. The doors parted.
Inside, the air changed. Heavy. Ancient. It smelled of parchment, wax, and lightning—like forgotten time itself. Tiered shelves spiraled downward, disappearing into haze, gravity-defying platforms suspended impossibly.
"I've only been down two levels," Elira whispered."First time," Mark murmured. "Feels like a place where knowledge comes with a curse."
"It often does," said a voice behind them.
They turned. A tall man stepped forward, cloaked in gray robes embroidered with living runes. His face was old, eyes sharp, skeptical.
"I'm Archivist Vellan," he said. "No student enters the third level uninvited."
Mark held out his hand. "Then maybe I should be the first exception."
Vellan studied him, then glanced at Elira. "You trust him?"She nodded. "He's deliberate."
After a tense pause, Vellan led them down a floating staircase that shifted with every step.
"Follow closely. The Archives do not forgive strays."
Level three was colder. Darker. Floating candles burned blue. Scrolls were locked in glass etched with warning glyphs. A thin mist swirled around their feet, carrying the faint tang of ozone and old power.
"Why am I here?" Mark asked.
Vellan stopped before an ironbound door. Glyphs flared as he placed his palm on the surface.
"Because your mana signature matches something we haven't seen in a hundred years."
Inside was a single tome. No title. No dust. No locks. But it radiated power. The air around it hummed faintly, vibrating against Mark's fingertips.
"This book belonged to the last Forbidden Tier student," Vellan said softly. "The one erased."
Mark reached for it. A whisper echoed—not a voice, but a pressure, like the world itself was holding its breath.
He opened it.
Black ink danced across the page, rearranging itself into words:
"Power unbound by circle or oath. Magic not meant to be tamed. The Forbidden Tier is not born—it is remembered."
Diagrams and runes pulsed like living organisms. Mark's hands began to glow, as if resonating with the book itself.
"Mark—" Elira warned, eyes widening."I'm not doing this," he said, voice strained.
But the glyphs wrapped around his fingers like living bands of light, pulsing with his heartbeat.
Vellan's face went pale. "It's choosing you."
The Archive trembled violently. Far below, something ancient stirred. Emergency runes flared red, lockdown protocols engaged, sealing staircases and corridors.
"A Vein has awakened," Vellan said, his voice low and grim. "Arcane bloodlines sealed in the ley-lines. Forbidden magic rooted in the bones of this world. Your power didn't just resonate—it called to it."
"Is that bad?" Elira asked, already drawing protective glyphs in the air.
"Catastrophic," Vellan said. "Because now they know."
Above them, alarms screamed. Pulses of raw magic radiated through the floors, scanning, locking, targeting. A deep, mechanical voice echoed through the Archive:
"Contain the anomaly. Do not let him reach the surface."
Elira grabbed Mark's hand. "We have to run.""But the book—""They'll destroy it. Just like the last one." She stuffed it into a mana-sealed satchel.
Vellan opened a narrow back corridor, hidden behind a sliding rune panel. "Twenty seconds before the Sentinels reach this floor. Go!"
Mark hesitated only once. This was the line. Play ghost. Survive quietly. Or—
Run. Fight. Rewrite everything.
He looked at Elira. Her grip was unrelenting, her eyes blazing with belief.
He ran.
The corridors twisted unnaturally, almost alive with the magic unleashed. The blue candles flared to life, illuminating intricate runes along the walls that seemed to crawl toward them. Whispering echoes of erased students brushed against Mark's mind, a warning and a promise.
Behind them, the heavy stomps of Sentinels sounded closer. Their blue eyes locked onto Mark's glowing hands, calculating and relentless. Each step made the stone corridors groan as if the building itself resisted the intrusion of forbidden magic.
Mark raised his hands instinctively. Shadowfire leapt from his fingertips—not bright, not chaotic, but precise. It struck a Sentinel mid-stride, freezing it where it stood, circuits sparking violently. He didn't pause.
Elira drew sigils rapidly, creating a protective barrier that rippled as the constructs tried to breach it. The corridors twisted further, staircases rearranging as though the Archive itself was alive, pushing them toward escape—or testing them.
They burst through the final spiral staircase and emerged onto the roof. Lightning split the sky above the Academy, reflecting off the obsidian walls and throwing long, jagged shadows across the fog-shrouded courtyard.
The book pulsed in Elira's bag, its energy resonating with the Forbidden Tier magic still coiling around Mark's hands. He inhaled sharply, feeling power awaken that he had never fully accessed before.
Miles beneath the school, in vaults untouched by time, a locked sarcophagus pulsed once. The seal cracked, tiny fractures spreading across ancient runes. A single glowing eye opened, blinking slowly as if awakening from centuries of slumber.
Mark and Elira paused atop the roof. The city sprawled below, neon veins of magic and technology intersecting like arteries. Storm clouds churned above.
"They won't stop," Elira said. "And whatever that is… it's coming."
Mark exhaled, fists clenching, eyes blazing faintly with shadowfire. "Let them come."
The Forbidden Tier magic simmered beneath his skin—silent, deadly, and alive. This wasn't survival anymore. This was war.